


lest ye be judged

by nilchance



Series: lest ye be judged [1]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Adoption, Child Neglect, Gen, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Undertale Saves and Resets, sans as judge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-30
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-11-06 23:27:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11046555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nilchance/pseuds/nilchance
Summary: Fifteen years before the resets, Asgore stumbles across two strange children.





	1. year zero

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to the awesome poisontaster for the beta. She is win.

_In a shed, there is a broken machine and a photo album. In the photo album, there is a poorly done drawing of three smiling people.  
   
On the card, someone has written two words: don’t forget._  
 

****

After washing off the blood, Asgore goes for a walk. He can’t be in the castle, and he needs to remind himself of the point of it all. To see his people, their longing and their hope, and let their chatter drown out the echo of a human child, screaming.  
   
He brings no guards. When his advisors try to plead for him to think of security, he tells them that he doesn’t fear his people. He has faith. This isn’t quite a lie, but it also isn’t quite true. He walks alone for the same reason that he doesn’t murder the humans in one strike.  
   
He isn’t seeking death. If death comes seeking him...  
   
A sound. For a moment, he thinks the wail is only in his mind. Then he hears its counterpoint: a wet, hacking cough.  
   
He stops walking, listens, and follows the sound. It takes him down two narrow alleys, out of the way, where the streetlights stop.  
   
In the last alley, there are two children. One child is carrying the other, younger, one against their shoulder. They’re hunched against the wall, or maybe the wall is propping them up. The faint light reflects off bone. Skeletons. Asgore has only seen one other skeleton, Gaster, who told him with typical bluntness that he was probably the last.  
   
The older child is frantically rubbing the younger’s back, trying to quiet them. "Knock knock." The child pauses, during which their passenger continues to howl. It’s the scared kind of cry, a come-here-now-and-fix-this cry designed to carry. "Canoe." Another pause. "Canoe help me out and stop crying for like two seconds? Pl--”  
   
The words turn into a cough, the child craning their head away. The cough goes on for a worryingly long time. The younger one seems to agree, because they get louder. When the fit is over, the child wheezes with great feeling, “ _Fuck._ ”  
   
Asgore clears his throat and says, “Howdy.”  
   
The child spooks, jerking upright and backwards. Very fast, words tripping on each other, they say, “I’m sorry, okay, I’m trying to make him stop, we’re going, we’ll go right now, we--”  
   
Then their eyes lock on Asgore’s face. They freeze like a rabbit in front of a snake.  
   
“No, no, it’s all right!” Holding his hands up, palms open and empty, Asgore puts on a smile. “I overheard you and I came to see if you’re okay.”  
   
“We’re okay,” the child says. They speak while moving as little as possible. They don’t blink. Their fingers clench in the younger child’s shirt. Sensing their alarm, the other goes eerily quiet.  
   
Heart breaking, Asgore kneels to make himself smaller and (hopefully) less intimidating. "You don’t have to be afraid. I have to say, I’m a little worried for you. Are you lost?”  
   
“We’re fine. The finest. You can go now.”  
   
“What’s your name, friend?”  
   
All of a sudden, the wire tension drains from the child. Their smile flattens. “Nope. We’re not doing this.”  
   
Asgore blinks. “I’m sorry?”  
   
“We’re. Not. Doing. This. Go away.” When Asgore shifts, the child’s eyes flash yellow and blue. “Go away or you’re really not gonna like what happens next.”  
   
Small and cornered creatures have nothing to lose, and tend to go for the eyes. Asgore has little doubt that he _wouldn’t_ like what happened next, especially because he’s not going to raise a hand to this child even if it gets him mauled.  
   
He sets his trident on the ground and pushes it away. The scrape of noise makes the child twitch; there is a faint crackle of magic like the moment before a lightning strike. He wants so badly to CHECK them, but it’d be too easily mistaken for a precursor to a fight. It’s terribly rude, besides.  
   
Every monster matters enough for a name, no matter how silly. Names are personal, individual. He must see these children as people. _His_ people. For now, until he gets a real name, Asgore will think of the older child as Nope. The younger can be Littler One. It’s difficult to guess the gender of children in general, and he can’t reckon how to ask. ‘They’ will suffice.  
   
Besides, the older one reminds him of Chara.  
   
“My name is Asgore,” he tells them.  
   
"I know who you are." The pressure of Nope’s magic doesn’t yield. "Real hard to miss it."  
   
“I imagine so! Then you know my home is right there. It's very warm."  
   
As if hearing, Littler One squirms, kicking Nope in the ribs. Nope doesn't react or shift their attention from Asgore's face. "Must be nice."  
   
"There's plenty of room and food, if you'd like." Asgore nods towards Littler One. "Enough for both you and your small friend there."  
   
Nope's smile has razors in it. "You feeling guilty or something?"  
   
"If children are starving in the streets of my city, yes. What kind of king would I be if I didn't try to change that?"  
   
Nope's eyelights extinguish. Their sockets are hollows dark enough to drown in. "The kind who killed six children already."  
   
Asgore's first wild instinct is to search his robes for a traitorous spill of blood. His second instinct, the worse, is to reach towards his trident. He has fallen that far, that his reaction to the truth is to strike it down.  
   
He stills himself, but Nope sees his hand twitch. Suddenly they are gone. They don't run, they don't even move; they disappear. It's like the night has swallowed them.  
   
It's very impressive for a moment, until twenty feet down the alley there's a clamor of trash cans and a wracking, violent coughing fit. The night must not have liked the taste and spit them back out. Admittedly, if temperament is any indication, they probably tasted very bitter.  
   
"Wait," Asgore calls after them. "Please?"  
   
The fit grinds to a stop. A rattling gasp. Littler One yowls a protest.  
   
Nope slinks from behind a dumpster. They're no longer a black-eyed wraith, just a child who looks a little sheepish. There's a half-eaten banana stuffed hastily into one of their pockets. Asgore gets the feeling that they expected to teleport much farther than they actually did.  
   
Nope spits, "I'm not coming to your murder castle."  
   
And yes, Asgore knows that tone well: bravado to cover up fear. Fear of a raised voice, a hand moving too fast, any hint of anger. Oh, Chara.  
   
"How did you know?" Because there's no point in dissembling. The alley is empty aside from them, and Asgore's secret... Well. It's already cost him everything. "What did you see?"  
   
"Lucky guess." Asgore must look skeptical, because Nope huffs an almost-laugh. "It's written all over your face."  
   
"The exact number of children?"  
   
Nope shrugs, which sets Littler One to fussing again. Idly, with the air of long practice, Nope rubs Littler One’s back. "'s not a great party trick. You gonna try to kill me now?"  
   
 _Try_ , Asgore notes, charmed. "No. You know, I've heard of monsters who can read people so well. My mother had an advisor. A judge. There hasn't been one for a long time."  
   
Nope narrows their eyes. "Maybe they're just smart enough to keep it quiet."  
   
"I wouldn't blame them." Asgore sighs. "You don't want to come near the castle. I understand. Would you let me bring you a bag of food and some blankets?"  
   
Opening their mouth to speak, Nope stopped short by Littler One coughing. It isn't a phlegmy cough, not like Nope’s. Not yet.  
   
"Some medicine?" Asgore says, very gently.  
   
The slow toppling of Nope’s resolve is awful to watch. Their judgment doesn't seem any gentler when they direct it at themself.  
   
Finally, they nod and look away from his face. When he stands, they skitter backwards. Steps, not magic. Perhaps they're too tired for it. There are shadows upon shadows under their eyes.  
   
Asgore takes several steps back himself. Better to give them space. "I'll be back as soon as I can. Teleportation must come in handy."  
   
"Here and there."  
   
A joke? Asgore isn't sure if he should laugh. He smiles instead, trying not to show teeth. Their face is difficult to read. He inclines his head and goes.  
   
His trip to the castle is as quick as he can make it. An assistant cook catches him in the pantry and will have plenty of stories about the eccentric king who sneaks sizable midnight snacks. Even so, he expects to return to an empty alley.  
   
He doesn't. Nope is pacing and muttering to Littler One, who is complaining in that way Asriel would when he felt confined. Asgore wonders how long Nope's been carrying them. Does Littler One have shoes?  
   
These are not his children. It's unfair to see them filtered through Chara and Asriel's dust.  
   
He sees his children reflected in the humans, too. In the set of a jaw, the shine of tears in an eye. In the weight of their small bodies in his arms.  
   
There is no fairness in the world.  
   
"They might want to move around," Asgore says.  
   
Nope’s shoulders hunch, all stung pride. "Don't tell me how to deal with my brother."  
   
"I'm sorry." Asgore puts the bag of food between them. A peace offering. "Father's instincts."  
   
"Yeah, I bet those humans really appreciated--" Nope snaps their teeth shut on whatever else they were going to say. Their attention flicks to Littler One (Little _Brother_ ), as if he might be listening in. They sigh. "Thanks. For the food."  
   
Asgore shuffles back. "The food isn't a hostage. You can say whatever you'd like."  
   
Nope snags the sack by a strap, body (and brother) as far out of Asgore's reach as possible. Then they dart back, putting the bag on their unoccupied shoulder.  
   
The swoop of motion makes the brother laugh as if he's on the best ride ever, a bright spill of sound. Nope continues to back away.  
   
"If you come tomorrow," Asgore says, "you can have another bag of food."  
   
They stop.  
   
"I'll bring it myself around this time tomorrow. If you're not able to come, I'll hide it behind that dumpster for you."  
   
Their fingers clench briefly into fists. They ask, "Why?"  
   
It seems like a question they ask a lot.  
   
"Because you're hungry." Asgore looks at those bare bone fingers and adds, "I could bring other things, if you'd like. Gloves."  
   
A wordless noise of frustration. "What do you want?"  
   
To have his family back. To never kill again. To put his heavy crown down and be a gardener. "I'd still like to know your name."  
   
"Oh, is that all. Still nope." They pronounce the 'p' with unnecessary force.  
   
Well, he assumed so, but he had to ask. "Nope, it's nice to meet you and your brother."  
   
"Heh." It's not a laugh, not really, but Asgore will take it as a victory. They start moving again, unwilling to turn their back to him. "Sure it was. Go away."  
   
For all that they tell him to go, they seem a little surprised when Asgore nods and gets to his feet to leave. "I'll see you tomorrow, friend."  
   
"No, you won't," Nope says.  
 

****

   
Nope is true to their word. When tomorrow comes, they're not there to take the food. Or the next day. Or the next. The bags disappear from their hiding place, but there's no sign of children. Not even a distant cough.  
   
On the fourth day, Nope is waiting for him.  
   
They look much improved. Their bones have lost that flat chalkiness. Their breath doesn't rattle in their chest. The hand that rests on Little Brother’s back is steady and, much to Asgore's relief, warmly gloved.  
   
Asgore sets the bag down and slides it towards Nope.  "Howdy, Nope. Little Brother. I'm glad to see you."  
   
Nope flicks a look at his face. Then, without preamble, they say, "What the hell is your problem?"  
   
"Oh. Hmm." Asgore considers. "I can think of several, to be honest."  
   
Nope gestures at the bag and has to quickly readjust Little Brother before he overbalances. Little Brother is definitely livelier, a squirming bundle of energy. He cranes his head to try to see Asgore, and Nope turns his body so Asgore won’t see Little Brother’s face. "Don't you have anything better to do?"  
   
Looking into those bright burning eyes, Asgore realizes: Nope is beyond angry. Nope is furious. He holds his hands out in that same gesture of harmlessness. "No. I don't."  
   
"Maybe get a hobby." With jerky motions, Nope gathers up the bag. "Knitting. Macramé. Not buying people."  
   
"Buying...?" Asgore shakes his head. "That isn't what I'm doing."  
   
"Yeah, okay. You just happened to find us. You just happen to give us things I can't turn down. You just happen to get all charitable after you decide I've got the secret superpower of being a judgmental dick." Nope's smile is a rictus. "I know what you're doing. Do you want me to be happy about it? Is that part of the deal?"  
   
"Child." The word falls heavily from Asgore's mouth, a ringing anger in it. Anger for the child in front of him. Nope flinches but doesn't run. "You can read my guilt. Do I seem guilty of trying to buy children?"  
   
"That's not how it works. I don't know what people are gonna do before they do it." There's a world of bitterness in their voice. "That’d be too useful. Besides, you might think you're being nice. Doesn't change anything."  
   
"What can I do to make this easier?"  
   
"I dunno. Build a time machine. Go back a couple years to when I really needed you."  
   
"I would if I could." Asgore sighs. "I'm not going to stop bringing you food."  
   
"I'm not going to stop taking it." There's an edge of challenge in the words. A dare. Nope's eyes dart to the center of Asgore's body, then to his hands.  
   
It had taken months before Chara stopped probing at the limits of his patience like a sore tooth. Seeing what it would take for Asgore to hit them. It's a hard lesson for a child to learn, harder to unlearn. Asgore keeps his hands open and voice easy. "Thank you."  
   
"If you're gonna call me like a dog," Nope says, "you might as well use the right name. I'm Sans."  
   
A measure of trust or of giving up? Asgore wants to protest on several fronts (he has known so many perfectly nice dogs and he calls them on their cell phones) but settles for, "Then thank you, Sans."  
   
He doesn't ask for Little Brother's name. Sans doesn't offer. In that regard, they understand each other perfectly.  
 

****

   
Once Sans says their piece, Asgore doesn't see them again for three months. The food is always gone by the next day.  
   
Winter has softened into the rains of early spring. Asgore has no concrete excuse for sending someone out to search for them, and he knows that if he tried, Sans would disappear entirely. They're in the city somewhere, and that has to be enough.  
   
Eventually, Asgore slips a note into the bag. _I'm not calling you. I'd just like to know that you're safe. Are you sick? Does Little Brother need new shoes?_  
   
The note goes unanswered. Belatedly, Asgore realizes that he doesn't know if Sans can read. He sends along a children's book that Asriel loved, a simple thing about learning one's letters. It's taken.  
   
A week later, when Asgore comes to drop off food, the book is waiting for him. Someone has wrapped it in plastic to keep off rain. There's a torn but clean napkin tucked in the front cover. Three words scrawled in a clear hand: _Send more books._  
   
Asgore keeps the note in an inside pocket of his robe. Sometimes, when he's tired, he rests his fingers over it and smiles.  
 

****

   
"What're you doing with the food?" Gerson asks. He leans against the handle of his warhammer, a deceptive idleness. "Cook's starting to ask questions."  
   
"I know." Asgore tips water into the flowerpot. Gentle, gentle. The new shoot is tender and easy to snuff out. "I met two homeless children. They need help."  
   
Hollering, Undyne streaks by with a spear in each fist. The little dog she's chasing barks happily. Her ponytail is like a battle flag streaming behind her.  
   
"Watch your footwork, girl!" Gerson calls after her. "You'll put your other eye out!"  
   
"Screw you, old man!"  
   
"Ha." Gerson shakes his head and tells Asgore, "Funny what we'll do for kids, huh?"  
   
"Yes." If Asgore looks at his hands, he can still see the blood of human children. "It truly is."  
 

****

   
Asgore is in the little room that Chara and Asriel shared, once upon a time, when Sans speaks from behind him. "I give up."  
   
Asgore fumbles the book he'd been considering for the next care package, something about stars. The book hits the floor with a loud thump, and he swivels. "You came--"  
   
Sans has one hand covering their left eye. Blood trickles between their fingers. There's no sign of Little Brother.  
   
With more urgency than sense, Asgore goes to them. Sans shrinks back but doesn't teleport or lash out. Asgore CHECKS them. What he reads shears his heart in half.  
   
 _Sans. ATK: 1. DEF: 1. HP: 0.5. He's lost._  
   
As Asgore stands there, the HP ticks down. 0.4.  
   
"Whatever you want," Sans is smiling but there’s stark terror in it. "I don't want to die."  
   
Asgore goes to one knee. "Let me see."  
   
Slowly, Sans lowers his protective hand. His eyesocket is cracked like a punched mirror, the light itself extinguished and hollow. Asgore puts his hand over the wound, blood seeping hot through his fur; his hand nearly covers Sans's whole face. Sans's breath hitches, his good eye fixed on Asgore.  
   
Asgore wishes Toriel were here. She is better at healing, as she's better than Asgore in every other sense. He pours healing into Sans without her gentleness, thinking of the fragile shoot in his garden. At the first touch of magic, Sans flinches, fists clenching. It must hurt.  
   
"I know," Asgore murmurs. "Easy, now."  
   
The bleeding slows, then stops. Sans's HP stabilizes but doesn't rise. Bone begins to knit beneath Asgore's hand.  
   
"What happened?" Asgore asks. "An accident, or did someone do this to you?"  
   
"Doesn't matter."  
   
"It does to me." When Sans says nothing, keeping his own counsel, Asgore sighs. The latter, then. "All right. Where is your brother?"  
   
"Ha. Well." Sans grins unsteadily. "Let's say you've got a skeleton in your closet. Figure you'll hear him yelling and find him if I dust."  
   
"You're not dying. I'll make you a cup of sea tea and you'll be right as rain." Asgore runs his fingertip across the arch of Sans's brow. "I don't know about your vision."  
   
"Guess I'll be sans an eye."  
   
Asgore's unwilling laugh rumbles in his chest.  
   
Sans relaxes a little. "Most people and me don't see eye to eye on jokes."  
   
As if Toriel is whispering the joke in his ear, Asgore says, "They must be blind to humor."  
   
"Eh. When it comes to comedy school, not everybody can be a pupil." Asgore chuckles, and Sans's grin widens. "What am I gonna do, fight about it? Really sock-et to 'em? Naw. An eye for an eye leaves the world blind."  
   
"That would indeed be short-sighted."  
   
"Nice," Sans says, with real approval. He yawns, wincing as the motion jars his wound. "Ow."  
   
"Almost finished." Asgore spreads his fingers, checking the progress of the healing. The spiderweb cracks have closed, leaving only the two worst fractures. He's seen his share of injuries during the war, and he's almost certain now that the damage was done by someone's fist. Someone with rings. Someone intending to do the worst possible damage. He'll ask Gerson to check the hospitals for a monster with broken fingers, because punching bone is an excellent way to shatter one's hand. "Are you hurt anywhere else?"  
   
"They only got one hit in. What, did you think I was gonna stand there and take it?"  
   
Watching the cracks close is a little like seeing flowers bloom. "And Little Brother is unhurt?"  
   
"Yeah. We got lucky." Sans shifts on his feet. His eye is clearly growing heavy now. "Home, New Home, Little Brother... you really are bad at names."  
   
"I've heard that. I'm not sure what else to call him."  
   
"Papyrus." Sans says it like a sacred word, an oath. A precious thing he keeps close to his heart. Even saying it seems to center him. When Asgore blinks at him, he bristles. "It's a good name."  
   
"An excellent one. It suits him."  
   
"Yeah, he's the best. He’d tell you his name anyway, and I don't want him to think he's named something dumb.”  
   
Asgore brightens. "Oh, he's speaking now? Wonderful. What was his first word?"  
   
"'No' is, uh. Pretty much his favorite."  
   
The cracks are healing, healing, healed. When Asgore moves his hand away, Sans only looks at him blearily. Asgore smiles at him. "It was my son's, too."  
   
"He's not yours," Sans says. "Pap. He's not part of the deal."  
   
Asgore puts his hand on Sans's shoulder. "Please listen to me. There is no deal. No payment, no contract, no oaths. The only thing I want is for you to drink some tea and sit down before you fall down."  
   
"You want that? Okay." Sans sits right on the floor, a graceless folding of limbs, and glowers up at him. "There. Was that so goddamn hard?"  
   
Asgore resists the urge to facepalm. "Fine. Yes. You've repaid the favor."  
   
Sans leans back against the bed that Chara died in. "Wow, touchy."  
   
"Will you be here when I come back?"  
   
"Yeah. Kind of out of gas, here, and I'm not leaving without Papyrus." Sans puts his hands in his pockets. Despite his indolent slouch, Asgore has no doubt that he could be upright and out of reach in a second if necessary. " _Tea_ you in a minute."  
   
When Asgore comes back with the tea, Sans is asleep sitting up. He snores very loudly for a child. Perhaps the responsible thing to do would be to wake him and pour tea down his throat. Instead, Asgore carefully unmakes Chara's bed and tucks the blankets around Sans's shoulders.  
   
He hopes that Chara won't mind, just this once.  
 

****

   
Gerson finds Papyrus very quickly. He has help.  
   
"You've got a big mouth for such a little kid!" Undyne holds Papyrus out at arm's length, his legs dangling, and gives him a toothy grin. "Yell at the world, punk! Show me your guts!"  
   
"No!" Papyrus beams. His disconsolate wailing only lasted as long as it took to show him Sans, safe in the little bedroom. Asgore expected him to refuse to leave Sans to sleep, to cling, but Papyrus only patted his face (the uninjured side) and wandered off to Undyne. A very resilient child. He's taken to her, and she's been carting him around like a particularly unwieldy training dummy. She's only dropped him three times.  
   
(Asgore had warned her that if she met Sans, she’d have to be much more careful with him. Undyne had agreed but been clearly unimpressed.)  
   
"Close enough!" Undyne decides. "You wanna see my spears?"  
   
"No," Asgore and Gerson say as one.  
   
"No!" Papyrus chimes in, with great enthusiasm.  
   
"Huh." Undyne considers. "You wanna draw pictures of me fighting humans with my spears?"  
   
"No?"  
   
Undyne sets him on his feet. "Too bad, we're gonna do it whether you like it or not!"  
   
"No!" Papyrus cheers, and follows her anyway.  
   
Gerson shakes his head, fond. “He’s a little small, but a good solid starter minion.”  
   
“Give him some time to grow,” Asgore says.  
   
“Time, huh. Are they sticking around?”  
   
Asgore glances towards the bedroom where Sans is sleeping. “I’m afraid it isn’t up to me.”  
   
“Ain’t it?” Gerson points his hammer at Asgore, expression stern. “They’re kids, Fluffybuns.”  
   
“I did notice that.”  
   
“My girl’s tough as nails and she loved running wild in Waterfall. Feral little anklebiter. But I dragged her home with me, because it was her freedom or her life.” The hammer tilts, pointing at the bedroom now. “You let these kids go and I’d lay money on him being dead before winter.”  
   
Asgore’s head feels heavy, an echo of the crown. He puts it in his hands. “I can’t keep him here against his will. He teleports.”  
   
“Undyne bites. Kids are great.”  
   
“Are you volunteering?”  
   
“Hell no. I’ve got my hands full.” Gerson spins the hammer in Asgore’s direction again, like a judge’s gavel. He could give Sans lessons in showmanship. “If the kid’s got two brain cells to knock together, he knows he can’t make it on the street or keep protecting the little squirt. If he bolts, he won’t stay gone. You’ve got a bedroom already set up. Gold sure isn’t a problem. Could be good for everybody, having kids around here again. Y’know. Hope for the future. Heirs.”  
   
“I can’t,” Asgore says. The words veer too close to a sob. “I can’t.”  
   
A moment of level, silent staring. Then Gerson yields. “Then let them crash here for a while until you find somebody else. Some squishy-hearted monster will take them in, especially if it’s you asking.”  
   
Toriel. Of course Asgore thinks of her first. She is an excellent mother, to their own children and to the humans who pass through her ruins. It’s not her fault they died.  
   
No. There is too much scorched earth between him and Toriel, and offering her two children to replace the ones she buried (and the ones he _killed_ , mustn’t forget that) would be monstrous.  
   
“He thinks I’ve bought him,” Asgore says.  
   
“Does he now? Let me tell you a story.”  
   
“Gerson--”  
   
“It’s a human story, from some book or another I found in the dump. Y’know, before I figured out Undyne’s got no patience for books. I don’t remember most of it, except that it was damn depressing. Humans love telling kids sad stories, like the world ain’t sad enough.”  
   
Asgore says nothing.  
   
Gerson continues. “Anyway, there’s this little prince and this fox. The fox’s all starved and bitey. The prince wants to be friends, and the fox tells him to fuck right off because that’d make him tame. And once you tame a thing, you can’t undo it. They’re your problem now. You tried to tame that boy, Fluffybuns. Doesn’t matter if you meant to. You gave him food and brought him home.”  
   
Thinking of Chara, Asgore says, “You can’t tame some foxes.”  
   
“You shoulda thought of that before you started. Besides,” Gerson shakes a finger, “nobody likes a quitter!”  
   
“Quitter?!” Undyne pokes her head out of the study, Papyrus clinging to her neck like a little possum. “Who’s quitting? Quitters get noogies!”  
   
Predictably, Gerson points at Asgore. “Right here! Get ‘em, killer!”  
   
Undyne swarms him, almost knocking over the chair in her enthusiasm.  
   
Asgore shortly has two children hanging from his horns, which makes it a little difficult to mope. Papyrus has a surprisingly strong grip.  
   
Head tilted to one side, Undyne gnawing on his horn, Asgore asks Gerson, “Aren’t you a guard?”  
   
Gerson cackles.  
 

****

   
In the morning, Sans greets Asgore with, “What’d the duck say to the shopkeeper?”  
   
Asgore stops in the doorway; he’d already started creeping away, thinking Sans was still asleep.  “I didn’t mean to wake you.”  
   
“My eye is busted, not my ears.” When Sans opens the hurt eye, the eyelight is back, if unfocused.  “I ‘ear just fine.”  
   
“I made tea.” Approaching slowly, Asgore sits on the ground and holds the cup out. “I wasn’t sure if you took sugar or cream. I can get some, if you’d like.”  
   
“Nope. Thanks.” Sans wraps his fingers around the cup and looks at Asgore through the steam. His slouch is deceptively lazy. “Where’s Papyrus?”  
   
“Oh! He’s fine. He’s safe.” Desperate relief crosses Sans’s face, and he takes his first deep breath since Asgore entered. Asgore starts to stand. “I’ll get him for you right now.”  
   
To his surprise, Sans shakes his head. “Not yet.” A pale grin. “You stepped on my line.”  
   
It takes Asgore a moment to understand. “Oh, about the duck and the shopkeeper? I’m sorry. What did the duck say?”  
   
“Put it on my bill.” Sans takes a sip of tea. “Heh. Mine must be pretty long by now.”  
   
“I’m not keeping track.”  
   
“I am. You wanna hear?” Without waiting for a response, Sans rattles off, “Four months of food. Six books. Two bottles of cough medicine. Two pairs of mittens, a scarf--”  
   
“Sans.”  
   
“Pap really likes the scarf.” Sans closes his injured eye. Winking? Because it’s hurting? Both? “Before last night, I thought I could even pay you back.”  
   
Despite the steadiness of Sans’s gaze, his hands are shaking; bone clatters softly against the ceramic glaze. The tea is going to spill, and it’s hot. Gently, slowly enough for Sans to pull back, Asgore cups his hands around Sans’s to steady them. Sans doesn’t resist. His finger bones are cold.  
   
“Anyway. Like I said last night, I give up,” Sans says. “Hilarious, right? You say I’m a judge and here I’m throwing myself on the mercy of the court.”  
   
“And as I said last night, you owe me nothing. This debt doesn’t matter to me.”  
   
“It matters,” Sans says through his teeth, “to me.”  
   
“What do you think is going to happen if you don’t repay me?”  
   
Sans’s eyes veer sharply off Asgore’s face and fix onto nothing. It’s an answer, of a kind, even if there are no words in it. Then he tugs against Asgore’s hands, testing his grip.  
   
The tea has cooled a little, enough that it won’t burn him. Let it spill. Asgore releases him and takes his hands back. Sans only sits there. His broken slouch looks like he’s been flung down by some cruel giant, and now he’s trying to figure out if he’s too hurt to move.  
   
“Drink your tea,” Asgore tells him. “It’s better warm.”  
   
Sans drinks his tea. It doesn’t seem like he’s tasting it. Asgore wishes suddenly, nonsensically, that he’d put sugar in it. Children like tea with sugar. Sans’s composure might be burning down around them both, but at least the tea would taste better.  
   
When the quiet stretches out a little too long, Asgore tries an encouraging smile. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize how important keeping things even was to you. In that case, I ask is that you stay here with me for a--” he almost says _a while_ , recognizes the loophole, and corrects it to, “until the royal healer says you’re recovered.”  
   
Distantly, San says, “If you want.” It’s as if his mind has left the room.  
   
“Yes. That’s my request. From there, we can figure something out. Maybe, er. Homework. Chores?”  
   
“Chores,” Sans echoes. “Yeah. Sure.”  
   
His gaze drops to Asgore’s lap. To the belt of his pants. Then he meets Asgore’s eyes. If he feels any particular way about this, if he notices Asgore’s rising horror, it doesn’t show on his face.  
   
Chara had only been with Asgore and Toriel three days when they tried to climb into his bed. Asgore had thought at first that Chara was seeking comfort after a nightmare, as Asriel sometimes would. When he’d realized, after the comfort and Chara’s blank incomprehension and the tears (Asgore’s and Toriel’s), he had wanted to raze the human world to the ground. It had been easier to think that only humans would be so cruel.  
   
Oh, Chara. Asgore failed them.  
   
He cannot fail again.  
   
“No,” Asgore says simply. This time around, he manages to strip the fury and the questions from his words. “Never. Your body isn’t coin.”  
   
Sans shrugs, not as if he agrees but as if he doesn’t care enough to fight about it. He tries to take a drink, finally seems to realize that he’s been sipping from an empty cup for the last few minutes, and puts it down.  
   
Taking a deep breath to calm himself, Asgore asks, “May I CHECK you? I’d like to see how the tea worked.”  
   
Another shrug. At least that terrible sense of absence is gone. “Okee dokee.”  
   
Sans’s HP is at 1/1. Asgore had hoped that with some sleep the base HP would rise. Maybe with food and a roof over his head…  
   
“That attack last night should’ve killed you.” When Sans’s grin skews, sardonic, Asgore adds hastily, “Not that you should be dead! I’m very glad you’re alive, but the numbers--”  
   
“It’s okay, big guy. I get what you mean.” Sans rubs his face. Despite just waking, he already looks exhausted again. “I dunno. Like I said, I really didn’t want to die.”  
   
“You must be very determined.” Asgore gathers up the tea cup. “And very hungry, I imagine. Would you like breakfast?”  
   
“I want to see my brother first.”  
   
Asgore says, “How about we do both?”  
   
The smile almost touches Sans’s eyes.  
 

****

   
The brothers reunite in the living room like it’s been years instead of overnight. Papyrus is very quick to drop from Undyne’s piggyback ride and run to Sans, and Sans’s hug doubles as an unsubtle check for broken bones. Even Undyne hangs back, watching through her narrowed eye.  
   
Finding no injuries, Sans beams at Papyrus. “Hey, buddy. Sorry, I picked a bad time for a nap. Hope you weren’t scared. ”  
   
Tenderly, Papyrus pats his cheek and croons, “No.”  
   
“No? Wow, you’re pretty brave, huh?”  
   
“No.”  
   
“Aw, c’mon, don’t talk about yourself like that. You’re the coolest. You’re bone cold.” Sans grins. “Y’know, like stone cold, but--”  
   
Papyrus smooshes one little hand across Sans’s face and pushes it away. “Noooo,” he repeats sternly, and Sans laughs. Not a sharp _heh_ , a real laugh, a glance at the child he could have been.  
   
Awkwardly, Asgore says, "Sans, this is Gerson, the head of the Royal Guard, and his daughter Undyne."  
   
All Asgore's uncertainty and curiosity about how Sans will react as a judge to strangers turn out to be unwarranted. Sans just gives that same neutral smile.  
   
The way Undyne looks Sans over, head to toe, mirrors Gerson's troop inspections, down to the little grunt when she can't find anything to object to. Apparently Sans passes muster, if only because Papyrus so clearly adores him. Then, with typical Undyne bluntness, she asks, "What happened to your eye?"  
   
Asgore opens his mouth to protest, and Gerson jabs a sharp elbow into his ribs to shut him up.  
   
Untroubled, Sans says, "Guess you could say I wasn't looking where I was going."  
   
Undyne scoffs. "Right. You tripped into someone's fist. Somebody who would hurt a little kid like you ought to taste justice's sp-- hammer."  
   
Sans, who Asgore suspects is older than Undyne by a few years, dodges her statement as neatly as he dodges everything else. "How'd you lose yours?"  
   
Grinning, Undyne pulls up her eyepatch to expose the scarred hollow beneath. "I was protecting my turf in the dump. Some punk attacked me with a broken bottle. Ha! Like that would keep _me_ down."  
   
"Did you kill him?" Sans says.  
   
Somehow Undyne's grin manages to expose even more of her sharp teeth. "I would've, but the old man was faster. Lucky for him I'd softened them up first."  
   
Gerson cackles and gives her a noogie. "I only got there first because her aim was off by a mile!"  
   
The noogie turns into a scuffle, as it often does. Papyrus laughs. Sans doesn't flinch or move away, but he's tense and he watches Gerson's hands very carefully.  
   
Finally, Undyne growls and bites Gerson's arm, getting mostly shirt for her trouble. Unconcerned by her chewing, Gerson continues, "Happens when you first lose an eye. Your depth perception goes to hell. S'why I switched to the war hammer!"  
   
"What happened to _your_ eye, old man?" Sans asks.  
   
"Human plucked it right out," Gerson says breezily. "With their bare hands, too! Those were the days. Me, Fluffybuns and Pitch on the battlefield. Pitch's the medic. She'll be coming round to get a look at you and the kiddo."  
   
There's no sign of reaction from Sans aside from a minute tightening of his fist in Papyrus's shirt. "I guess the eyes have it."  
   
"Wahaha!" Gerson starts to playfully smack Sans like he does Undyne, stops himself short, and punches the air instead. "That's the spirit. Got to laugh in the face of death, eh, since we're all gonna be dust sooner or later!"  
   
"Gerson," Asgore sighs. "That's a little morbid for children."  
   
"Pff," Gerson says. "'S a little late to keep this one wide eyed and innocent."  
   
"I could be fifty percent wide eyed and innocent," Sans points out.  
   
There’s a tap on the door to Asgore’s suite, and Pitch steps inside. She’s still in her scrubs, meticulously clean, her graying ears pulled back in a loose knot. She’s almost as short as Sans and doesn’t look like the kind of monster who could survive a war. Asgore is grateful for that, because for a moment he thinks Sans might bolt.  
   
“Speak of the old bat herself!” Gerson says.  
   
“Hello, Gerson. A pleasure as always.” With a nod to Asgore, Pitch strides over to Sans and Papyrus. She’s in business mode, straight-forward but not unkind. She holds her hand out to Sans to shake. “And hello to you. I’m Pitch, the royal medic, and you are?”  
   
Sans takes her hand. “I’m pretty sure somebody told you that already.”  
   
“I wanted to ask you,” she says, unperturbed. “Anyway, I’m here to do a quick examination. Are you ready?”  
   
Sans shrugs, more resigned than accepting.  
   
"Would you like me to stay?" Asgore asks Sans.  
   
"Nah." Sans glances at Gerson, still smiling, and adds, "You got better things to do than look after tame foxes."  
   
Gerson caws a laugh. "C'mon, Undyne, there's a wall in the hallway that needs propping up."  
   
Undyne pats Papyrus on the top of the head. "I'll be around. She’s nice. Be tough, okay?"  
   
"Pap's always tough," Sans says.  
   
"He's pretty cool," Undyne agrees.  
   
Sans relaxes, and his grin becomes a little more real. That fast, they’ve found a common ground. "Yeah."  
   
In a matter of moments, Pitch has herded Sans and Papyrus into the children’s bedroom and closed the door. Asgore isn’t sure how worried he looks, but Gerson stops to punch Asgore companionably on the shoulder before disappearing with Undyne, leaving Asgore alone.  
   
Which is fine. Of course. Asgore has plenty of work to do, and he’s certainly learned how to be alone. He’ll just read reports. Yes.  
   
He gets absolutely nothing done.  
   
Hours pass before Pitch steps back out of the bedroom.  
   
Asgore has seen her cow grown guardsmen into submission without ever raising her voice. No matter how pointless or severe the injury, she maintains the steady unimpressed calm of a field medic. But when she comes out of the bedroom, pulling off her gloves, she is radiating anger.  
   
Asgore takes one look at her and says, "Let me make you some tea."  
   
"Do you have any whiskey?"  
   
Asgore winces. "I gather it was bad, then."  
   
Perching on the edge of a kitchen chair, she says tiredly, "Not the worst I've heard. Not the best, either."  
   
Asgore retrieves a bottle of liquor from the spice cabinet. It's old, left over from Toriel's baking. "It's not whiskey, I'm afraid, but it's strong."  
   
"Bless you." Pitch drinks straight from the bottle. "Ahh. You know, that's one thing I miss from the wars. Humans really had that alcohol thing figured out, and we don’t tend to find it in the dump. Are you ready for my report?"  
   
"If you please, my friend."  
   
"The important thing is that they'll be fine. They're underfed and exhausted from living on the street, but some food and a place to stay will fix them up. Papyrus has a minor speech delay, but he's obviously pretty quick so I'm not real worried about it. Sans is blind in that bad eye, even if he can make an eyelight." A muscle in Pitch's jaw flexes. "They've both got signs of neglect and physical abuse. Sans won't say what it came from and he wouldn't let me check for... well. Other kinds of abuse."  
   
Asgore shudders, recalling the meaningful way Sans looked at his belt. "I have my suspicions."  
   
"Yeah." Pitch takes another healthy swig, then recovers a handkerchief and daintily wipes her mouth. "Whatever happened, Papyrus probably saw it. Here's hoping he's too young to remember."  
   
"A bleak thing to hope for," Asgore says heavily.  
   
She shrugs. "Sometimes that's the only thing we've got."  
 

****

   
Screaming wakes Asgore. He's already out of bed and moving before he can even register what roused him. Reflexes from battle or from parenting drive him towards the sound.  
   
He finds its source in the children's room. Papyrus is curled up in a tight ball, clutching his head in his hands. Sans is wrapped around him, saying something that's lost beneath Papyrus's inarticulate howling.  
   
"No!" Papyrus sobs. "No, no, nononono--"  
   
Sans catches sight of Asgore. Asgore braces himself for Sans's reaction, but Sans only looks resigned. An attack would probably be more reassuring.  
   
All at once, Papyrus's frantic denials break off and become quiet, sobbing breaths. Papyrus doesn't try to cling or hide his face. It's Sans who pulls him closer, pressing Papyrus's face into Sans's shoulder where Asgore can't see.  
   
"Sorry we woke you up," Sans tells Asgore. His grin is more like a polite grimace. "He's, uh, probably done for the night. I've got it from here, so..."  
   
 _So get out,_ is implied but not stated.  
   
"I see," Asgore says. With a sinking heart, he's remembering the way Sans said that Papyrus's favorite word is 'no.' "I think I'll have a cup of warm milk to get me back to sleep. Would you like some?"  
   
The flat, unimpressed look Sans gives him says that Asgore is fooling no one. "Sure. Thanks."  
   
Grateful for something concrete to do with his hands, Asgore puts a pot of milk on the stove. Then he returns to the kitchen doorway to watch over them.  
   
It's strange, having children in the home again. Perhaps it should bother Asgore more, but they don't tug at the scars of his grief. Between his duties as king, Papyrus's love of following Undyne everywhere, and the general difficulty of finding Sans when he doesn't want to be found, Asgore doesn't see much of them.  
   
It reminds him a little of the war, when he would share abandoned haylofts with feral cats. Like feral cats, Papyrus is young enough to be more curious than he is frightened. Also like feral cats, Sans is quick to grab Papyrus and make them both scarce.  
   
Asgore keeps his voice soft when he asks Sans, "Has this happened before?"  
   
Sans shrugs, but carefully so as not to disturb Papyrus. "He's not usually loud."  
   
"It's not my sleep that I'm worried about."  
   
Looking down at the top of Papyrus's head, Sans sighs. "Yeah, I know. It's messed up. He's just a kid, he shouldn't be--"  
   
Sans stops. Asgore can nearly see the heavy hand of the judge on Sans's shoulder, weighing him down.  
   
Words are inadequate, but Asgore says, "You've done the best that you can. It isn't your fault."  
   
"You said I had to stay until the doctor said we were fixed."  
   
Asgore glances over his shoulder, less to check the milk than to give himself a moment to prepare for whatever Sans is going to throw at him. "That was the agreement, yes."  
   
"We're never gonna be fixed," Sans says. "Are we?"  
   
No moment could prepare Asgore for that. He wants to go to them and gather them up in an embrace, but that would comfort him more than Sans. He hesitates a second too long.  
   
Sans raises his head to look at Asgore. "So we're never going to get out of here."  
   
 _Is that so terrible?_ Asgore wants to ask, but he has to be careful. Answering Sans's questions is like negotiating a treaty with a hostile nation of mindreaders. "You're never going back to living on the streets. I can't allow that. But you aren't prisoners, and you won't be here forever. We'll find you a family."  
   
Sans glares. "I've already got a family."  
   
"Of course, yes," Asgore says hastily. "I mean a parent."  
   
Puzzled, Sans says, "Why?"  
   
They stare at each other for a long moment.  
   
"How old are you?" Asgore asks.  
   
"Dunno," Sans says, as if that is a perfectly reasonable thing to say. "All we need is a place to stay. That'll be easier. I can get a job--"  
   
"Sans." Rubbing his forehead, Asgore tries to smile. "You do realize that you're still a child, don't you? And that child labor is illegal?"  
   
Sans narrows his eyes, but only says, "Milk's gonna boil."  
   
It's a blatant distraction and also true. Asgore jumps to save the milk, which thankfully isn't boiling yet. He pours it into three mugs, considers, and adds a liberal amount of honey. Asriel took it that way when he’d had a nightmare, and Asgore developed a taste for it himself.  
   
It almost doesn’t hurt to think of Asriel.  
   
Balancing the mugs, Asgore returns and sets them down on the side table beside the children. Then he hovers.  “It’s still hot, so be careful, please.” Sans gives him another of those _are you kidding_ looks. Asgore chuffs a laugh. “I know. Please forgive an old man his quirks. I hope you like honey?”  
   
“Dunno, I’ve never had it.”

Taken aback, Asgore asks, “Even with tea?”  
   
“I mean, I hadn’t had tea before you gave me some.” When Asgore gasps, genuinely distressed, Sans says, “Heh. Kinda thought you’d say that.”  
   
“Sea tea is a terrible introduction! It tastes so medicinal!” Asgore rubs his chin, thinking. “You should try other kinds. There’s golden flower, of course, it’s my favorite. Undyne loves green tea because of the animes. Or there’s black tea with cherry jam like the humans sometimes drink, or tea with cream… I’ll show you. Er, if that’s agreeable, of course.”  
   
“If you want,” Sans says, but he seems cautiously interested. “It’s not a big deal.”  
   
“But you should know what you’d like,” Asgore says. “You should have good things.”  
   
"That's real nice of you." Sans's wary tone implies that niceness is like an animal with rabies: something to be watched before it bites. "I mean. To do all this, not just the tea. I'm not in a rush to get out, is what I'm saying. I can tell it's better for him here."  
   
Asgore nods. "And for you?"  
   
Instead of the evasion or the polite lie Asgore is expecting, Sans says, "Don't push it, big guy."  
   
Asgore's laugh surprises Sans into a grin that's almost honest.  
   
The sound finally brings Papyrus's head up. Blinking blearily and rubbing his eye with a fist, Papyrus says, "Hi."  
   
"Holy shit," Sans says. When Asgore clears his throat politely, Sans amends, "Shoot. That's a new one, buddy. Can you say it again?"  
   
With a definite air of humoring Sans, Papyrus repeats, "Hi."  
   
Sans beams at him. "You're so cool, Pap." Then, surprisingly, he turns that look to Asgore. "Right?"  
   
"Very cool," Asgore agrees.  
   
Papyrus nods serenely and takes the cup of milk. If there weren't tear streaks down his face, Asgore could forget that the fit of screaming happened at all. Asgore can't tell if Papyrus doesn't remember or if he's faking for Sans's sake. A resilient child, indeed.  
   
In a move straight from Toriel's playbook, Sans licks his thumb and wipes at the wet streaks down Papyrus's face. Papyrus allows the fussing with a loud complaining noise that only makes Sans snicker, but they're both careful not to risk spilling the milk. Even after nearly a week of living in the castle, food is still a precious and unreliable thing. It probably always will be.  
   
"So, uh." Sans doesn't quite look at Asgore, absorbed in grooming Papyrus. "Is it okay with you if we stick around for a while, buddy?"  
   
Papyrus hesitates for a second, darting a look at Asgore and back at Sans. When Sans nods, Papyrus brightens and gives an enthusiastic thumbs-up to both of them. It's a gesture Asgore has seen Undyne make a thousand times, combined with the same toothy grin. He must remember to call Gaster to see about teaching Papyrus to speak in hands. Maybe that would be a little easier…  
   
After an awkward silence, Asgore realizes that they're both looking to him. He smiles with all his relief and happiness. "Thank you. You will always be welcome here."  
   
Decisively, Papyrus sets his mug down, climbs off the couch, and goes to Asgore. Sans tenses up but doesn't intervene, and so Asgore is left to hover over Papyrus wondering frantically what to do with his hands.  
   
"Do you need something, little one?" Asgore asks.  
   
Papyrus lurches forward and hugs Asgore's legs. For all that he only comes up to Asgore's waist, his grip is surprisingly tight.  
   
"Oh." Carefully, Asgore rests a hand on the top of Papyrus's head. "Thank you, Papyrus. I'm happy too."


	2. two weeks

Every time Asgore sends Gaster a message asking to meet, he knows that he’s gambling on whether Gaster will remember to respond at all. Gaster might turn up in moments or in months.  
   
The mystery of two skeleton children must be quite a lure, however, because Gaster arrives within a week. Being Gaster, he also shows up unannounced in the small hours of the morning.  
   
Asgore has barely opened the door before Gaster is signing, _where are they?_  
   
"It's two o'clock in the morning." Asgore is not at his best without sleep. His bathrobe might be hooked on one of his horns.  
   
Gaster blinks at him, uncomprehending. _That's why I brought coffee._ One of his magic hands has a cup of coffee in its grip, and it bumps against Asgore's shoulder like a friendly cat. In this mood, Gaster won't leave without an hour long discussion about boundaries, sleep and how coffee is not actually a food group, and he might not remember to come back. Asgore sighs and steps aside to let him in.  
   
"It's two o'clock in the morning," Asgore repeats, taking the coffee just to make the hand still nudging at him stop. "The children are in bed sleeping, as most children do when it is two. O'clock. In the morning."  
   
Gaster points over Asgore's shoulder. _That one isn't._  
   
Sans is in the doorway of the bedroom.  
   
With a heroic effort, Asgore swallows a frustrated sigh. "We didn't mean to wake you. Go on back to bed."  
   
Sans only has eyes for Gaster. For a moment Asgore wonders if it's because Sans has never seen another skeleton besides Papyrus. Then Sans says, "You're Gaster. _The_ Gaster."  
   
_A Gaster, certainly. I think there's only one of me. In this universe, at least._ Gaster pauses his furious signing. _I'm being rude again. Do you speak hands?_  
   
Sans starts to sign. _I'm a little rusty. Sorry._  
   
Gaster lights up. His magic hands begin to flap, as if they're venting his enthusiasm before he can explode.  
   
Before Gaster can launch into another speech, Asgore says, "Sans, you know of him?"  
   
Sans stares at Asgore like he's speaking nonsense. His eyelights are the brightest Asgore has ever seen them. "Are you kidding? He's the Royal Scientist. He's a fu-- freaking genius."  
   
_I'm both those things,_ Gaster agrees. He walks close to Sans, into Sans's closely guarded personal space, and kneels down to peer into his face. _I thought I'd never meet another one of my kind. You're shorter than I expected._  
   
"Thanks," Sans says, dry.  
   
Gaster either doesn't notice his sarcasm or elects to ignore it. _Where did you come from?_  
   
Behind Gaster's back, Asgore covers his face with his hand. "You don't have to answer that."  
   
Sans shrugs. "Not here. Nobody's left. Doesn't matter."  
   
_I was alone, too._ Gaster flicks his fingers, as if dismissing something from a touchscreen. _The past is boring. Leave it to the archeologists. The now is much more interesting._  
   
"Not the future?" Sans asks. He's engaged, as comfortable as he ever gets, even though there's a near stranger in his face asking questions.  
   
Asgore is not envious. Not at all.  
   
_But now is happening. Now has potential. It's a billion moments and a billion choices,_ Gaster's magic hands entwine fingers, _wrapped together. Separated by such a thin door._  
   
"Alternate universe stuff, yeah. I read some of your work. What they had at the library."  
   
Gaster sits back on his heels. _What did you think?_  
   
"Heh." Sans rubs the back of his neck. "I mean, I'm just a kid. I didn't get all of it. Hell, I probably didn't get half of it."  
   
_If you didn't get all of it, you're already miles ahead of the people who think they understand it perfectly. I don't understand my own research completely, and I'm the one who wrote it._ Gaster rests his chin on his magic hand. _Tell me what you think. Did I miss anything?_  
   
Sans takes a deep breath, bracing himself, and says, "Well...”  
   
And he proceeds to launch into what may as well be a foreign language to Asgore. It's the most words he's ever heard Sans say at one time.  
   
Because Gaster is a dear friend and because Asgore wanted to understand more than every third word Gaster said in their briefings, Asgore tried to take an introductory course in physics. He'd been hoping to proceed to quantum physics, Gaster's actual field. That optimism had ended with him sitting with his head on the textbook, because maybe that way the information would pass through his skull.  
   
Sans is smart. He talks circles around Asgore, twisting words around until they bleed. When he does lie, he keeps all his stories straight. He is the despair of his new tutors because he refuses to apply himself. But until now, Asgore hadn't realized that just how smart Sans is.  
   
He is so proud that his chest hurts.  
   
He sits at their little kitchen table, dazzled by the light of Sans's genuine smile.  
   
They talk until morning. Even though Sans is hoarse and Gaster has that bright-eyed overstimulated look that says he's going to crash soon, Asgore can't find the will to make Sans go back to bed. The little bit of good faith that Sans has given him would be easy to smother.  
   
So it's two very tired skeletons that Papyrus sees as he wanders out of the bedroom, yawning hugely. He stops to blink, because Sans is never awake first. In fact, Sans usually doesn't budge unless Papyrus sits on his chest like a tiny, scowling gargoyle and pokes him in the forehead for a while.  
   
Instantly, Sans's attention goes to Papyrus. "Morning, lazybones."  
   
Asgore says, "I think we've found your alternate timeline right here."  
   
Sans gives him a surprised laugh, which Asgore happily accepts.  
   
Gaster ignores them both, leaning towards Papyrus. _Hello. I'm sure you don't speak in hands, because Asgore asked me to teach you._  
   
Sans says, "Pap, this is Gaster. He's safe."  
   
Without any of Sans's skittishness, Papyrus approaches Gaster. He studies his face, then reaches for Gaster's hands.  
   
Gaster lets him take them, clearly just as fascinated. Papyrus pokes experimentally at the holes in Gaster's palms, followed by craning his head to peer through them. Then he looks up at Gaster and asks, "Ow?"  
   
Gaster shakes his head.  
   
Satisfied, Papyrus turns his attention to poking at the individual phalanges that make up Gaster's fingers. Holding up his own, much smaller hand, he studies both, then looks at Sans.  
   
"Yeah," Sans says. "He's like us."  
   
Papyrus looks up at Gaster, considering, and says, "Hi."  
   
That settled, he pulls Gaster out of his chair and leads him on a walking tour around the living room.  
   
"Jeez." Sans turns in his chair to watch them. "You think I should go translate?"  
   
A little surprised to be asked, Asgore says, "I think they can understand each other just fine."  
   
"Yeah." Sans looks back to Asgore and reads his face. "Hey, what're you all soppy for?"  
   
"They look happy." Asgore does not say _you look happy,_ because that's sure to shut Sans down. "I haven't seen Gaster so happy in a long time."  
   
"Pap's pretty great for that." Sans turns to watch them again. "It must be strange, finding out you're not alone anymore."  
   
"I'm sure it is."  
   
Across the room, Gaster is signing with the help of his magic hand, since Papyrus is still towing him around. _Amazing kinesthetic awareness for your age. I wonder if it's related to your brother's teleportation. Some kind of extreme spacial intelligence?_  
   
"Kinda nice, though," Sans says, not making eye contact. They are just two grown monsters having a conversation about someone else entirely. Nothing to see here.  
   
A clack of bones. Papyrus is hugging Gaster around the waist. Gaster looks like he took a blow to the head. Asgore should probably intervene, but the careful way Gaster pats the top of Papyrus's skull stops him.  
   
He hasn't seen this side of Gaster before. Gaster rarely even leaves his lab, exploding into Asgore's rooms when he wants and then disappearing just as fast. He wasn't around when Chara and Asriel were alive. It's nice to find out that Gaster is good with children, or perhaps just good with these children.  
   
"Thinking about getting rid of us, big guy?"  
   
The question jolts Asgore from his musing. He looks at Sans, who is watching him with a lazy smile. "Would you like to talk with him about that? We can ask. I can't promise he'll say yes, but--"  
   
"Nah." At Asgore's surprised look, Sans smiles wider. "I want to work for the guy. I think I can do it without nepotism."  
   
"That shows a lot of integrity," Asgore says after a moment. _Nepotism_? He's starting to see why Sans frustrates his tutors.  
   
"Heh." Sans returns to watching Papyrus. Carefully, as if each word is a stone he's using to cross a fast river, he says, "Besides. We've got an okay thing going. Or am I wrong?"  
   
Just as carefully, Asgore reaches across the table and covers Sans's hand with his own. Sans darts a look at him but doesn't yank his hand away. "No, you're right. It's a good thing."  
   
"Okay," Sans says. "Because Papyrus is pretty happy here."  
   
"I'm glad to hear that," Asgore says. His heart aches like there is a tender vine blooming from it, reaching towards the light.


	3. six years

It’s an unfortunate truth of the crown that Asgore’s days are rarely his own. However, he’s fierce about protecting his evenings. Evenings, he shares with the children.  
   
This evening, like most, he is curled up in his reading chair. Theoretically, he is reading reports from his advisors. In actuality, he’s watching Papyrus and Sans share the kitchen table while Sans does homework. Strange, how such a mundane sight can be so riveting after three years.  
   
“Brother, sit up,” Papyrus pokes Sans in the skull with the tip of his finger. “The table is for eating, not lying down.”  
   
“Nah.”  
   
Papyrus glares with such maternal disapproval that Asgore has to bite his lip to keep from chuckling. Underneath the boasting, Papyrus’s pride is a fragile thing. “Hmph. Don’t come crying to me if your back hurts later.”  
   
“Don’t worry, Pap. I can handle a few aches and pains. I’ve got the--”  
   
“NO.”  
   
“--  backbone for it.”  
   
Papyrus sighs so heavily that a crayon rolls off the table. “Nyeh! As _pun_ ishment for your crimes, Asgore gets to see my new masterpiece first!”  
   
Sans sits up. “Aw, c’mon, that’s a little cruel and unusual--”  
   
“Justice is very important!”  
   
Papyrus clambers off his chair in such a way that Asgore wonders yet again if Papyrus is secretly made out of rubber bands instead of bones. At this point, Asgore wouldn’t be surprised; Papyrus just had another growth spurt and spent the week tripping over his own feet and bounding back up, undaunted.  
   
Since he wasn’t really reading his reports anyway, Asgore puts them aside to let Papyrus climb into his lap. “I’m honored to be your first audience.”  
   
“As you should be.” Papyrus holds out his drawing. Despite his words, there’s a little uncertainty in his eyes that gives Asgore a pang. “One day, you can say ‘I knew the Great Papyrus in his classic crayon period.’”  
   
The drawing is of three people: Asgore, Sans and Papyrus. They’re all smiling, with the aboveground sun beaming down above them. Papyrus has labeled each of them. Sans’s is LAZYBONES, and Papyrus has written beside himself, ME!!!!!  
   
Asgore is labeled, DAD.  
   
Some expression must cross his face, although he doesn’t know exactly what he’s feeling, because Sans is immediately out of his chair and beside them.  
   
Sans peers over his shoulder to see the picture, then hisses out a breath through his teeth. Gently, he takes Papyrus by the shoulder and begins, “Hey, buddy, we talked about this. He’s--”  
   
It’s like a rockslide, a slow shift over the span of years that suddenly bursts into unstoppable motion. Asgore pulls Papyrus into an embrace. Papyrus slots neatly in his arms, all pointy elbows and knees. Nothing like Asriel or Chara. Perfect in his own way.  
   
“Yes,” Asgore murmurs. “How very wise you are.”  
   
Rubbing his cheek against Asgore’s chest, Papyrus says in a small voice, “Okay.”  
   
Beside them, Sans stands very still.  
   
Asgore lifts his head to look at him. Sans’s smile is blank, his eyes wild. Asgore can almost hear that clever mind ticking with frantic speed.  
   
In silent invitation, Asgore holds out his other arm.    
   
Papyrus says, muffled, “It’s okay now, Sans. I fixed it.”  
   
Sans steps into the hug. He keeps the arm of the chair between his body and Asgore’s, his shoulders stiff. Asgore starts to draw back, because every line and angle of Sans screams a warning, and Sans shoves himself closer. When Sans’s elbow catches Asgore in the ribs, it’s probably deliberate. Asgore takes it. It’s no less than he deserves.  
   
Then Sans extricates himself. He won’t look at Asgore. His eyes are for Papyrus alone. Smiling, smiling. “Welp, I’ve still got homework. Hey, weren’t you gonna read him a story tonight? _Dad_?”  
   
It’s amazing how Sans can say the word like a knife in the ribs.  
   
“Indeed I was,” Asgore says. “Will you pick one for us, Papyrus?”  
   
Papyrus nods and slides off Asgore’s lap. Despite having an excellent poker face, Sans is a puzzle Papyrus figured out a long time ago. When Papyrus reaches for his hand, all worry, Sans twitches but lets him take it.  
   
“You’re still going to read my bedtime story?” Papyrus asks.  
   
Immediately, Sans says, “Of course, bonehead, don’t I always? I just got homework. It’s a pretty easy essay, but I don’t want to, heh, jump to any conclusions.”  
   
Papyrus scans his face a second longer, then nods and lets him go. “I am a very patient skeleton!”  
   
Sans rubs his knuckles on the top of Papyrus’s skull and goes back to sprawling across most of the kitchen table. Amazing, how much space he can take up for such a small monster.  
   
Papyrus returns with the book, a manual on puzzle design. It’s much too advanced for a child of his age, but then Papyrus is smarter than he lets on. Shoving himself back under Asgore’s chin, Papyrus says, “Don’t worry. He just needs to think for a little while. He does that.”  
   
He makes no particular effort to lower his voice. Sans doesn’t look up, although he almost certainly heard.  
   
“Well,” Asgore says, “he can take as much time as he needs.”  
 

****

   
Sans keeps his word more diligently than most grown monsters Asgore has met. He reads Papyrus two bedtime stories, as it turns out, and sits beside him for a while after Papyrus grudgingly succumbs to sleep.  
   
Asgore has resigned himself to Sans staying there, aware that Asgore won’t bother him where they’ll risk waking Papyrus (who doesn’t get nearly enough sleep). He isn’t quite prepared for Sans to calmly walk out of the bedroom and close the door softly behind him.  
   
Then again, Asgore isn’t prepared for anything that happened tonight.  
   
Tentatively, Asgore tries, “Sans?”  
   
“Yep.” Sans keeps walking. To Asgore’s alarm, he’s headed for the door to their rooms. “You keep saying it like that, you’re gonna wear it out.”  
   
Asgore follows, far enough that Sans stays out of his reach. “Where are you going?”  
   
“Taking a walk. I’m not leaving the castle.”  
   
“May I come with you, at least?”  
   
“Couldn’t do it without you.”  
   
Surprised, a little wary of how easy that was, Asgore shoves his feet back into his shoes. “Thank you?”  
   
Gerson is leaning against the wall beside their door. Sans says to him in passing, “sup, old man,” and Gerson replies without heat, “Watch your mouth, tiny.”  
   
It’s an old ritual by now. Asgore can’t see any difference in it tonight, but Gerson raises an eyebrow at him. Asgore spreads his hands, helpless.  
   
Cheerfully, words intended to carry, Gerson says, “Teenagers, huh? Can’t live with ‘em, can’t drown ‘em in a barrel.”  
   
Sans doesn’t turn to snark at him, or even give an obscene gesture over his shoulder. Gerson gestures for Asgore to move along.  
   
Asgore’s stride is longer, and it’s easier to catch up. Aside from Gerson, the castle is quiet and mostly empty. Without people in it, giving it life, all the years the castle has seen seem to press down around them. Asgore feels history crawling on his back.  
   
“Sans. Please talk to me.”  
   
“You sure? Because we’re headed for the judgment hall, and you’re really not gonna like what I have to say.”  
   
Fear strikes Asgore like an arrow. Part of him, his coward’s heart, screams to stop right where he is. He doesn’t have to follow Sans. He doesn’t want to. He falters, and Sans doesn’t look back at him.  
   
Sans judged him once in that alley, six years ago now, and the truth had stripped Asgore to the bone. He had seen himself in the harsh light of the truth, and he had flinched. Sans had been distracted then, the judgment had lasted only a moment. This will be worse.  
   
And yet, if Asgore doesn’t pass this trial, Sans will never offer him another opportunity. Sans is reaching out, in his own way, and Asgore needs to at least try to take his hand.  
   
Asgore starts walking to his fate.  
   
The judgment hall hasn’t been used since the last judge died in the wars. The staff keep it scrupulously clean, but it has the haunted air of a forgotten place. Dust motes float in the light spilling through stained glass windows. It’s beautiful and cold. No place for a child (is Sans even a child anymore? was he ever?) but Sans fits into it like a hand in a glove.  
   
Their footsteps echo on the tiles. Sans steps between Asgore and the exit leading outside, blocking the way. He sticks his hands in his pockets, deceptively idle, and says, “Fuck you.”  
   
Out of habit, Asgore almost rebukes him for cursing. They have a swear jar for a good reason, mostly because Papyrus absorbs vocabulary like a sponge. Instead he says, “Er, is that part of an official judgment?”  
   
“No, that one was just for me.”  
   
Asgore nods. “I understand.”  
   
“Good.” Sans just looks at him for a long few moments. When he speaks again, it’s dispassionate. Cold. “The humans aren’t the only deaths you have on your head.”  
   
Asgore jerks as if he took a blow. Then he braces his feet. He will be steady for this. “I know.”  
   
“You killed from inaction as much as you did with a weapon.” Sans’s words are strangely formal, as if something older is speaking with his mouth. “Monsters live on hope, and we’re starting to run out down here. People have fallen down because they don’t think we’re ever getting out. Some of them killed themselves. Some of them just laid down and died. You and I both know you could’ve opened the barrier, killed one of the humans out there and made this all stop.”  
   
An echo of what Toriel said, when she left. Not for the first time, Asgore thinks of how well the two of them would get along. They can bond over jokes and how bloody Asgore’s hands are. His breath shudders out.  
   
Merciless, Sans continues. “You’re a killer, and you’re not even very good at it. When it comes down to it, you hesitate, and all that means is that the people you kill suffer first. You do it to spare your conscience, but you’re being cruel. You need to finish it. Either give up on reaching the surface or cross the barrier, take the last two souls, and get us out.”  
   
Each word is a stone. Asgore can’t speak, but his words aren’t necessary.  
   
“Like I said. You’re a killer. But you didn’t kill Asriel or Chara.”  
   
Asgore’s head jerks upright, and he meets Sans’s eyes. This is still his judgment. This isn’t Sans offering kindness. “I didn’t act.”  
   
“You didn’t see it. You’re not all-knowing, Asgore.” Sans never uses Asgore’s name. It’s nicknames or nothing. The shape of it in his mouth seems to bring him back a little. He sighs. “It wasn’t your fault. There was nothing you could’ve done.”  
   
Asgore blinks, and his tears finally spill over. He lets them fall. “I wish there was.”  
   
“Yeah, I know. Guilt’s easier than being helpless.” Sans stands quiet for a moment, distant. “I know you wish you would die, too. But you can’t. You’re not done yet. You’ve got a long way to go.”  
   
Asgore says nothing. There’s nothing to say.  
   
After a few minutes, Asgore whispers, “Is it finished?”  
   
“Yeah.” With a rattle of bones, Sans shakes himself like a dog shedding water. Then he leans against one of the walls. “I need a minute. You can cry if you want.”  
   
Asgore sits down heavily in the middle of the hallway. He puts his face in his hands, and he weeps. For his kingdom. For Toriel, for Chara and Asriel. For the human children. For the unnamed monsters who died in despair. For Undyne. For Gerson. For Papyrus. For Sans. For himself.  
   
It takes a long time. Sans doesn’t try to comfort him, and that’s as much of a balm as he could give.  
   
Finally, out of tears and scraped clean inside, Asgore raises his head. Sans is sitting on the floor, propped against the wall, his legs stretched out and ankles crossed. His eyes are shut, but Asgore knows better than to think he’s sleeping.  
   
Without cracking an eye, Sans says, “Wipe your face. You’re a snot disaster.”  
   
Asgore’s mother always insisted that he carry a handkerchief. She’s been gone many years now, but he has no doubt that if he forgot, she would return from the dead to scold him. As he pulls one out and grooms himself as best he can, he asks Sans, “Are you okay?”  
   
Sans opens his good eye. “I brought you here because it was the worst thing I could do to you.”  
   
“It was necessary.”  
   
“It’s both. Funny how that works.”  
   
Gentler, Asgore says, “And yet you stayed.”  
   
“Yeah, well. I’m tired.” The perpetual dark circles under Sans’s eyes are carved deeper than a few hours ago. He seems more exhausted than tired. “Turns out that being a judgmental dick really takes it out of you.”  
   
“I’m sorry.” Asgore rises to his feet, wincing as his knees and back protest. “One day, I’d like to know more about that.”  
   
To be accurate, he’d like to know anything about it. How judgment works, why Sans is so different when he speaks it, what it takes out of him…  
   
“Why?” Sans asks. “I’m not gonna do it again if I can help it.”  
   
“Because it’s part of you.” Asgore offers Sans a hand up. “Because you judge yourself. Is it as hard for you to hear as it is for me? Is that why you see everything you do in the worst light?”  
   
Sans doesn’t take his hand. “Don’t get confused about what Pap said. If he wants you to be his dad, great. I won’t stop him. I’ll play along, I’ll call you whatever he wants, but you’re not my family.”  
   
“I see.” Asgore keeps his hand out. “Then all I ask is that you remember that I care about you. Very much, in fact. The offer will be open if you change your mind.”  
   
It’s difficult to read Sans’s smiling mask, but Asgore thinks he might waver. Only for a moment, only a little. Abruptly, Sans says, “Would your kids be okay with that?” Asgore must react, because he sits up straighter. “No, I’m not being a jerk here. On purpose, anyway. I’m asking. You don’t talk about them and I can’t exactly read their faces to see how they tick.”  
   
 _Since they’re dead_ is implied but not stated. A surprising amount of tact for Sans. He is actually trying.  
   
“You know a little about them,” Asgore says. Each word is like stretching a muscle he’s neglected, unsure if they’ll hold his weight. He hasn’t spoken about his children for a long time, clutching each precious memory to his chest. It hurts less than he was expecting. “Chara liked space, like you do. They wanted to put glow in the dark stars on the ceiling. We were going to when-- ah. Well.”  
   
“Right.” Taking Asgore’s hand, Sans lets himself be hauled upright. He stumbles a little, but is not so tired to allow Asgore’s attempt to hold him up. “Sorry. Rude question. You don’t have to talk about it.”  
   
“No,” Asgore says. “It’s good to talk about them again. Most people are afraid to ask. They wouldn’t want to be forgotten.”  
   
Sans glances at him from the corner of his eyes. “They’re not. You remember them. I bet their mom remembers them. As long as you’re still alive, they’re not forgotten.”  
   
Asgore turns towards him. “Sans. That’s beautiful.”  
   
Sans scoffs, but his grin is a little embarrassed. He starts towards the hallway that will lead them back to their rooms. “It’s common sense. What about Asriel?”  
   
“Oh, he was a kind child. Tenderhearted. Papyrus reminds me of him, I’m sure they’d be great friends. He’s the one who brought Chara home.” Asgore smiles, remembering. “He helped me garden. He was so good with the flowers…”  
   
Asgore tells beloved stories their whole walk home. 


	4. epilogue: eleven years

"Sans?” Alphys says. “That’s n-not a very safe place to sleep."  
   
Sans opens his eyes. He's on the floor, head ringing, afterimages swimming in his vision like a firework went off in his face.  
   
Not a firework. The machine.  
   
"Al." Eyes burning, Sans pulls Alphys closer so he can peer into her face. He's shaking so hard his bones are rattling. "Where's Gaster?"  
   
She grins nervously. "Uh. I-is this a joke?"  
   
The room is pristine. The walls should be scorched black, pitted with shrapnel, burning down around him. Instead there is only the machine, intact and silent, casting its long shadow onto them both.  
   
"He was closest to the machine," Sans says, numb. "Something went wrong, it broke, it-- there was a fire and--"  
   
"Sans, uh..." Alphys tugs at her lab coat, trying to free it from his grip. "Who's Gaster?"  
   
He laughs, jagged and too loud, but he can see by her face that she's not joking. "Our boss? C'mon, you’re gonna hurt his feelings.”  
   
Her eyes are getting wider and wider as he rambles. She's good in a crisis, so some of the nervousness in her voice is stripped out when she says, "I-I'm gonna CHECK you, okay? I think maybe you hit your head."  
   
"There's nothing wrong with me," he says sharply. Even to his own ears, he sounds like a crazy person. "Call Papyrus, he'll tell you. Hell, call Asgore! They're friends! He'll vouch for me!"  
   
Her genuine confusion is just a warning shot compared to how it feels when she says, "How do you know the king?"  
 

****

   
When Asgore comes out of the school, he has to stoop a little so his shoulders clear the doorway. At least he isn't wearing the ridiculous shoulder pads today, dressed down in his slouchy gardening clothes. His hands are caked in potting soil up to the wrist.  
   
He looks happy.  
   
A kid tugs at his cloak and he stops to answer them, smiling and trying to look small. Looking at him, somebody could think he's harmless. The gentle king who wouldn't hurt a soul.  
   
It's so funny Sans forgot to laugh.  
   
The kid peppers Asgore with questions until some teacher finally comes along to extract them. As Sans ambles a little closer, he can hear Asgore reassuring, "It's no trouble. I'm here to help, and Undyne is indeed very cool."  
   
That rumbling, careful voice catches in Sans's soul like a fishhook. He almost turns on his heel and walks away. He shouldn't be here. This shouldn't be happening. He can't.  
   
He stops.  
   
He’s the one who broke everything. Well, him and Gaster and Alphys, but he’s the one alive to answer for it. He remembers. He has to fix it because nobody else can.  
   
Besides, it turns out that selling hot dogs and working spare jobs for Grillby doesn't pay all the bills. It'd be real nice if Sans's bank account had crossed universes with them, but it didn't. They need money, and Snowdin is too small a town for Sans to make cash his usual ways without it getting back to Papyrus. Asgore always insisted on paying his people well. Things haven't changed _that_ much.  
   
So he digs his heels into the snow and waits. If his hands are shaking in his pockets, nobody else has to know. His smile makes his face hurt.  
   
Asgore waves to the kid as they're pulled away. That happiness is still on his face when he turns around and sees Sans, like a secondhand kind of welcome. Like Asgore is happy to see him.  
   
 _Come on, buddy. Do you remember me?_  
   
No recognition. Maybe if it was Papyrus standing here, Asgore's real son, Asgore would know him, but it's only Sans.  
   
"Heya." Sans takes a couple steps closer and smiles like it's easy. The _it's a funny old world, ain't it?_ smile. "I'm Sans. I heard you need a judge."  
   
Asgore blinks and gives Sans a second look. Wary but definitely listening. "I see.”  
   
“Heh. Well, if you see and I hear, maybe we ought to speak and complete the set.”  
   
The joke may go over Asgore’s head, or maybe Asgore just doesn’t think it’s funny. Asgore brushes the dirt off his hands, a nervous tic. “Will you come back to the capital with me? I think this conversation deserves a nice cup of tea."  
   
Always with the fucking tea. "Sure. That'd be great." Taking his hand out of his pocket, Sans holds it out. "Wanna shake on it?"  
   
Asgore takes Sans's hand. When the whoopee cushion goes off, Asgore laughs, a real one that rings off the trees. It's hard for people to distrust somebody who makes them laugh, and fart noises are always funny.  
   
"Well, it's already a pleasure to meet you, Sans," Asgore says, laughter still rich in his voice.  
   
"Same, big guy."  
   
Sans keeps his smile nailed on. 


End file.
